On Intercorporeal Maltransference
by Daniella Fromage
Summary: After DH, Harry is haunted. Literally. While awaiting resolution of an afterlife . . . clerical error, Snape mentors Harry as he aids the Reconstruction. The two that never understood each other in life now find death more conducive to communication.
1. Portrait of a Man

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**On Intercorporeal Maltransference**

******o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Harry was dreaming. And he knew it.

He was waking gradually, but the dream seemed unwilling to fully release its hold, leaving him in a state of half-awareness even while playing out the scene. He was standing in front of the Dark Lord, deep in the Forbidden Forest, waiting . . . well, waiting to die. The firelight flickered eerily on that pale, snakelike face, the lambent red eyes devoid of even a spark of sanity. Voldemort raised his wand . . . Harry knew that he wouldn't be killed, because it was a dream, but what if it was a mistake and he really died this time? Yes, here came the flash of green light, and then he was falling . . . falling . . .

He was sprawled facedown, and his cheek was pressing something soft. Moss? Oh, right, he'd landed on his face on the forest floor. Apparently he wouldn't be seeing Dumbledore this time. Harry's glasses were digging into his temple, and he longed to adjust them, but he had to make them believe he was dead. Soon Narcissa would be standing over him, her hair tickling his face . . .

Time went by, and Harry frowned inwardly. _Wait a minute . . . I can't hear them talking. What the hell?_

Cautiously, he opened one eye a slit, and was stunned to see not firelight and trees, but sunlight shining on dark mahogany furniture. The "moss" was crimson velvet under his head. He opened both eyes and looked around. Was he still dreaming, or was this Gryffindor Tower?

Harry sat up abruptly, but immediately wished he hadn't. The room spun dangerously, and he had to grab the bedpost to keep from falling back down on the duvet. His temple throbbed where the glasses had pushed against the skin; that would probably leave a bruise. Actually, his whole head throbbed, and his mouth tasted like an old sock.

Looking down, Harry saw that he was wearing the same clothes as the night before. The same clothes he'd been wearing for months, really, now that he had time to notice. He ached for a shower and new clothes, but that would have to wait. Leaning his forehead against the cool wood, Harry struggled to get his bearings.

One by one, memories from the night before swam in front of his bleary eyes. The search for the diadem. Snape's death, and watching his memories in the Pensieve. The Forbidden Forest. Being carried back by Hagrid. The Final Battle, always henceforth to be capitalized in his mind.

Voldemort was . . . dead.

Harry waited for the feeling of elation that should follow that statement, but it was weak at best. He supposed that years of constant dread and false alarms had inured him to any feeling of safety. He slid down the bedpost until he was half lying down again, trying to think. What had happened after the battle? How had he gotten here?

_Let's see . . . Ron and Hermione and I went to the headmaster's office . . . we talked to Dumbledore's portrait . . . I used the Elder Wand to fix mine . . . then I was hoping for a sandwich from_

"Kreacher?" he croaked weakly. Harry's voice echoed in his ears too loudly, and he winced.

There was a loud _pop_ that made him jump (another throb for his head), and the small elf appeared before him. In his position, his eyes were about on level with Kreacher's ears. The sunlight caught the gold locket he'd given Kreacher, the one with the Black family crest, and the refractory glare blinded him momentarily.

"Master should be resting. Master had a terrible night."

"What happened, Kreacher? I mean, after the battle?"

"Kreacher is bringing Master a sandwich and firewhisky in his room, and Master is falling asleep on his stomach. Kreacher is not budging Master. Master's friends would be sleeping in the common room so as not to disturb him."

Firewhisky. Right. _No wonder everything's spinning,_ Harry thought, grimacing. _So this is a hangover. Well, if ever an occasion warranted a drink, I guess saving the world would be it._ He stretched cautiously and tried to yawn, but it hurt his head too much.

"Where's Ron?" he asked Kreacher. "And Hermione?"

"Master Weasley and the Mud — and Miss Granger are waiting downstairs for Master to wake," Kreacher said.

Harry sighed, but he wasn't about to get into semantics with Kreacher. Not at this hour, with a hangover to boot. _What hour is it, anyway?_ "Can you send them up, please?" he asked tiredly.

"Of course, Master. Kreacher is fetching food for everyone first." With that, the aged creature Disapparated with another _pop._

Harry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He gingerly touched his temple, and winced as he felt a deep indentation that was tender to the touch. Even though it hurt to wear them, he slid the glasses back on. He couldn't see otherwise.

Harry sat slumped against the headboard, watching the sunlight play on the floor. Toying with a strand of hair — he'd need to get that cut soon — he tried to sort through his thoughts. So much had happened that it would have made his head spin regardless of what beverage he'd consumed.

Though he couldn't bring himself up to what he felt was an appropriate level of excitement at the realisation that Voldemort was gone, vanquished, dead-for-ever, Harry was alert enough to see the possibilities. Everyone could come out of hiding, all those whose blood status had gotten them in trouble. Hermione's parents! They would be so happy to reunite with their daughter . . . oh, he'd forgotten; Hermione had erased their memories. They wouldn't even realise what had happened.

His friends! It seemed like years since his birthday party at the Weasleys', and now they could all be together . . . at that, Harry felt his heart wrench. Fred . . . He'd blocked out the incident at the time; other things had been more important. But Fred would never play another prank. He was gone.

Dead-for-ever.

It hurt to remember something like that all at once. With a sickening certainty, Harry knew that there would be many such pangs, sudden flashes of bleak reality that left his throat dry and his solar plexus wrung out like a sponge. He tried to find something good to think about instead . . . so many good things were possible now that the war was over. He would see Hagrid again, for real this time, not lying in his arms playing dead. And Ginny, and Neville, and

"Dobby?" he said excitedly.

Nothing.

He frowned. Strange . . . Dobby wasn't _his,_ exactly, but he always came when Harry wanted him. Even at . . .

"Oh, no," Harry said softly. "Dobby." His eyes prickled with tears as more memories clicked in. Dobby was . . . dead. He'd buried him at Shell Cottage. _Merlin, not again . . . will it ever end?_

Eager to focus his attention on something else, Harry wondered why Ron and Hermione were taking so long. Hadn't Kreacher said they were just downstairs? _Well, maybe he meant down in the Hall, not the common room,_ he thought. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. He raised up his head and glanced over at the door.

And began screaming.

* * *

"Would you stop that infernal noise?" the man in the doorway hissed at him. "You sound like a mandrake being tortured."

Harry stopped screaming as abruptly as if someone had flipped a switch in him to the "off" position. His throat felt raw, like something had torn loose in it, but luckily his heart seemed to be stuck there, too, holding the pieces in place. He swallowed hard past the lump.

"But . . . you're dead," Harry gasped out. "I saw you die . . . I watched her kill you!"

The man's mouth twitched. "And?"

"And you're here," Harry said lamely. His eyes widened, and he scooted further across the bed as the dark figure moved toward him.

"You were here at Hogwarts for six years, weren't you? You've seen ghosts before."

"You've come back as a ghost? But why?"

"Because I love you so much that I couldn't be without you."

"Oh, _blech,_" Harry retorted. "I'm already sick as a dog, don't even start." He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, rubbed it and rubbed it. "I'm still sleeping, aren't I?" he said, hoping it was true. "I was dreaming about Voldemort at first, but now I'm actually having a nightmare."

"Funny, that was my original diagnosis when I found myself here." Snape's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Stuff it, no one invited you." Harry couldn't stop rubbing his head, as if he could pound some answers into it manually. "Why _are_ you here, anyway? Was there a line at the gates of Hell? There must have been, with all the Death Eaters that bought it last night."

"Oh, _lustig._ Very witty. I'm here because, as you would realise if you had half a brain in your head, all headmasters remain as portraits to help whoever takes over."

"Then why aren't you _in_ a portrait? Why here? Why _me?_"

"I tried." Snape's voice was flinty. "There isn't a portrait hole for me. I checked; all the frames are occupied."

"Why didn't you ask one of _them?_" Harry asked irritably. "Dumbledore? Phineas? Anyone? Bueller?"

Snape's smile was more of a smirk. "I didn't wish to . . . disturb them at such an early hour," he explained. "They were up late."

Harry was outraged. "What about me?" he yelled. "They're _portraits,_ for the love of Merlin! You know all that noise last night? The screaming? The battle? _That was me!_"

"Well, there's no need to apologise," Snape replied calmly. "I had a feeling. You never cared much about annoying others."

"You're impossible," Harry said, throwing up his hands as he slid off the bed. "I'm going down there right now. I don't know _what_ is taking Ron and Hermione so long, but we're going to your office so I can _wake_ _Dumbledore,_" he finished sarcastically.

"I do hope we don't run into anyone else. It might frighten them to see me in this form," Snape said meditatively.

"You didn't mind scaring the bejesus out of me at the crack of dawn," Harry grumbled, gently stretching his arms over his head. Oh, that hurt.

Snape smirked. "Not in the slightest," he assured the yawning boy.

Harry threw open the door to the stairwell and started down, somehow sensing that Snape was following. It was rather eerie to know someone was behind him, but without hearing footsteps or clothes rustling. Harry stopped short. "Here, you go first," he said, flattening himself against the wall.

"Why?" demanded Snape's ghost.

"Because I don't like knowing you're up back of me. It's creepy."

Snape sighed. "As you wish." He floated ahead. After a few minutes, though, Harry was frustrated when he had to keep shortening his steps to avoid touching the spectral image.

"Could you float along a little faster there, please?" he asked irritably.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Potter. At my age, the muscles don't work as well," Snape answered.

"That was so stupid."

Finally, they reached the head's office. The gargoyle lay crooked, just as it had the night before. Harry went past it without saying a word and climbed up the broken staircase. He heard voices as he pushed open the door, but they stopped when he stepped into the room.

"Oh, good, you're all up," Harry said sarcastically, his voice echoing in the empty, silent room. "I'd have hated to wake you."

"Shut up, Potter," Snape snarled, coming into the room behind him. At the sight of the dead headmaster, all the portraits began to chatter excitedly with each other.

"Severus?" Dumbledore asked disbelievingly. "My boy, what's happened? We were all crowded in the downstairs portraits last night, and heard Harry explaining about your . . ." He paused.

"Demise," Snape finished smoothly. "Good morning to you, too, Albus. Yes, I did in fact pass away last night, crushed by that bloody snake, no less. To the end, I kept the secret of my duplicity from the Dark Lord. Ironically, he killed me anyway, to get at the Elder Wand."

"Gee, you can't trust anyone anymore," Harry said mockingly, flopping into an armchair. Just walking downstairs had made him tired.

Snape glared at him before resuming his speech. "I fully expected to wake up in this room. But imagine my surprise," he continued, "when I found that there was no portrait waiting for me."

Harry and Snape both jumped when they heard a snort from the doorway. Harry leaned forward so as to see around the upholstered edge of his chair. He smiled when he saw Professor McGonagall leaning against the doorjamb.

The aged witch straightened and walked into the room. "As if we'd want your hideous visage decorating the wall," she said sternly. "Portraits are for important personages, Severus, not murdering traitors."

Harry stared at her, startled. "Now, wait a minute," he began, but Snape and Dumbledore both spoke at the same time, so Harry's voice was drowned out.

"Listen, you old bat — " Snape shouted.

"Minerva, allow me to explain," Dumbledore began.

"Who are you to call _me_ an old bat?" she yelled back at Snape.

The adults began arguing loudly. One by one, the portraits chimed in until the cacophony was such that Harry couldn't make out what any of the three were saying. He took a deep breath. "OI!" he yelled as loudly as he could.

Silence. Snape and McGonagall turned to face him, and Dumbledore's head swiveled in his frame.

Harry rubbed his throat, which again felt as if he'd torn something. He decided he'd better use as few words as possible. He appealed to McGonagall first. "Professor Dumbledore's hand was injured when he touched a cursed Horcrux," he began, "and he would have died soon anyway. He asked Snape to kill him so Voldemort wouldn't question his loyalty, and so he wouldn't have to suffer."

McGonagall looked sceptical. "How do you know this, Potter?" she asked.

"I saw it in the Pensieve," Harry answered. He didn't start in on where he'd gotten the memories or how; his throat was aching.

She rounded on Dumbledore. "Why didn't you _say_ something, Albus?" she cried angrily. "And you!" Snape looked amused. "Letting the Carrows have free reign here! And the Slytherin students practicing _Crucio_ on those poor children in detention! Now you tell me it was all part of the _plan?_"

From the start, Harry had known McGonagall was a formidable woman, but he'd never seen her quite so riled. Her eyes were shooting sparks; if she had a tail, she'd be lashing it. No wonder she was a cat in Animagus form; Harry could see she was aching to claw something, preferably Snape's face.

For the first time, Snape looked less than amused. He looked like a tired old man. "Minerva, I did what I could. But I had to maintain my standing with the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord; if I'd been found out as a spy, I assure you the alternative would have made what happened look like mere child's play."

"Right, well . . ." Harry felt they were getting off the point. "If we could get back to why Snape is, you know, a ghost. A vampire, now, I could see that, but this . . ."

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore remonstrated him gently.

Harry looked at him, almost speechless. "Are you kidding me?"

"Oh, knock it off," Snape cut in irritably. "Albus, what's happened?"

Dumbledore gave Harry a warning look over his half-moon spectacles, then turned back to Snape. "Well, Severus, every headmaster or headmistress is bound to serve his or her successors, as you know, which is why we inhabit these portraits."

"I know all that, Albus," Snape said impatiently. "What about me?"

"You never did have a portrait done," the erstwhile headmaster said simply.

"What do you mean?" Harry said. "Isn't it automatic?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "This is the saviour of the Wizarding world," he spoke to the ceiling.

"Oh, sod off, you didn't know either, apparently," Harry snapped back at him.

"You watch your tone, young man, or I'll — "

"You'll what?" Harry challenged.

"CHILDREN!"

Startled, all three men's heads swiveled toward McGonagall. "Children?" Severus arched an eyebrow.

"That's how you're acting, all of you," she retorted. "Now, Severus, _why_ didn't you have your portrait done?"

"I hadn't time to sit pretty for a portrait," spat Snape. "I had a school to run."

"Well, now you have plenty of time," Harry said sarcastically. "All eternity, actually. So let's get to it, shall we? Let's get you nailed."

Snape swung around.

"On the wall, that is," Harry finished with a smirk.

Snape glared at him for a moment, but obviously couldn't think of a retort. "Who," he finally said, "can we get to paint it? And _quickly?_"

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore began, "the only artist that I've ever known to be engaged for the Hogwarts portraits was Titus Briggs Pennock. I seem to remember that he died in Azkaban after being imprisoned for speaking out against the Dark Lord."

"Well, if that isn't irony for you," Harry said bitterly.

Snape looked angry. "Well, surely there's someone else? Anyone?"

Dumbledore was pensive. "Magical portraits require special skills," he said. "Not just anyone can do them. You'd have to ask at the Ministry; perhaps the artist who paints each Minister could be engaged."

"I can't be making inquiries into portrait painters," McGonagall said in exasperation. "Kingsley, that is, the Minister, will be here in an hour to discuss the interim plans for Hogwarts, and naturally Order members will be expected to do all they can for the Ministry itself. Free time will be in short supply for a good while yet."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Severus was outraged.

"_You?_ You think _you_ have problems? You're dead!" Harry shouted at him, getting up from his chair. "What's the big flippin' hurry? I don't know if you noticed, but the Wizarding world is in pieces. Do you think getting your ugly face up on the wall is a high priority?"

"I'm warning you — " Snape began, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.

"We have people to bury who died fighting for freedom, Death Eaters to arrest, Voldemort's body to, I don't know, burn at the _stake_, students to send home, _a castle to practically rebuild from scratch,_ but let's put all that on hold so that everyone can pay homage to your ravishing likeness in a room practically no one ever visits and would be even _less _likely to if you were — "

Snape lunged at him, and Harry was startled enough to jump backwards, though he blushed with embarrassment to think of it after. Naturally, Snape couldn't touch him; Harry only felt a very uncomfortable coldness as the man's discorporated hands passed partway through his chest. It was like swallowing icy water and feeling it burn his throat on the way down. Snape swiped at the air, bellowing in frustration as he failed to make contact. The sight was so funny that Harry had to choke back a snigger.

"Stop it." At Dumbledore's order, Snape reluctantly floated backward, though he still looked menacingly at Harry. McGonagall helped Harry up from the floor, and he stood shaking with laughter even under her disapproving glare.

"Severus," Dumbledore continued, "Harry is right, you know. There is so much to do, and it's not really an emergency. You'll simply stay in this form until we get a portrait done. I'm sure we can find someone just as soon as the most pressing tasks are completed."

Snape looked murderous, but what could he say?

"I have a question," Harry spoke up. "If there was no portrait, why didn't he just . . . you know . . . cross over?"

"Because when the new headmaster or headmistress takes office," Dumbledore answered, "part of their contract is to bind to a portrait. Magical contracts are unbreakable, even if unforeseen circumstances prevent the actual carrying out. What we have here is a case of intercorporeal maltransference."

"Holly-hooby-whatty?" Harry asked in exasperation. Was he supposed to be following this?

"Think of it as my file being misplaced," Snape told him.

"Oh, that makes much more sense. What a relief."

McGonagall sighed. "As fascinating as this conversation is, I really must ask you two to leave. The Minister will be here soon, and I have to get ready to meet with him. Harry, Kingsley may wish to speak to you and your friends later, so keep where we can find you easily."

Harry nodded and turned to leave the room. Out in the hallway, after descending the stagnant staircase, he was aggravated by the fact that Snape seemed to be following him.

"Don't you have something better to do than shadow me everywhere?" he asked grumpily.

"I don't know about 'better,' but anything that annoys you amuses me," the man mocked him.

"Well, you've succeeded. Now get bent." Still the shade kept pace with him as Harry made for the Great Hall. His stomach was churning, but over the past months, he'd learned not to take any meal for granted. He gritted his teeth, wanting to hit Snape, but knowing it was no use. Suddenly, Harry stopped short and turned to face his tormentor.

"What's your problem now?" Snape snapped.

Harry's face slowly broke into a grin which just seemed to keep growing.

"Careful your face doesn't crack," the ghost warned him snidely. Harry just kept smiling, and Severus began to feel uncomfortable.

"What is the _matter_ with you?"

"I know why you're he-ere," Harry said in a maddening singsong voice.

"Here?"

"Why you didn't move on."

"Oh? Why? Because I have an interest in your welfare? Because we have unfinished business?" the hook-nosed onetime Potions master, Defence teacher, and headmaster sneered. "Don't get sentimental, Potter, I'd go straight to Hell on a season pass before I'd volun — "

"It's not that."

Snape made an impatient gesture. "Pray tell, then, what do _you_ think is keeping me a ghost?"

Harry's eyes twinkled. "There's no one on the other side that likes you," he answered gleefully. "No one wanted you around, so you came back here."


	2. And So It Begins

**Chapter Two: And So It Begins**

Snape's eyes flashed angrily, but Harry could tell he was taken aback. Still, after only a second's hesitation, the man's upper lip curled into its familiar sneer. "How do you know that I didn't take one look at your father and Black and run screaming the other way?"

"I didn't mean _that_ other side," Harry retorted. "_They_ sure wouldn't want you around, but I was referring to the erstwhile Death Eaters frying on spits down below. I mean, I doubt they really liked you anyway, but now that they know you betrayed them . . . and of course, the Big Guy is busy with Voldemort."

"In my day, we called him the Old Harry, funnily enough," Snape made a lame retort.

"In your day, there were a lot of euphemisms. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, anyone?"

Snape started to speak, but he was cut off by Ron's voice as he came around the corner. "Harry, there you are!" the redheaded teenager exclaimed as he ran up to them with Hermione in tow. "We were just coming to get you. We're eating outside, 'cause the Gr —" Ron's jaw went slack as he took in Harry's partner in conversation. He started to say something, but after a few seconds of watching Snape's robes fluttering gently in a nonexistent breeze, all he could manage was a weak "Bloody hell."

"They didn't want him," Harry informed his friend, ignoring Snape's glowering. "Seriously, though," he said, addressing Snape, "I was thinking on our way down here, we really need to get your body from the Shack. It can't just lie there."

"Why not?" Snape asked, echoed by Ron. Only Hermione seemed to agree with Harry; she nodded her approval.

"Because Ginny and I were planning to set up housekeeping there," Harry said in exasperation. "Why don't you think about it?"

"It would be a step up in the world for a Weasley, that's for sure," Snape replied dryly.

"Oi!" Ron interjected, furious. "You're not exactly royalty, greasy git. Watch what you say about my sister."

"You're awfully concerned about getting me buried," Snape said to Harry while ignoring Ron, his eyes narrowing. "I'll bet you can't wait to dance on my grave."

"I'm _concerned_ because it's _summer_ and decomposing flesh doesn't smell too wonderful in the _heat,_" Harry said slowly, enunciating as if Snape were a particularly slow-witted child. "And as for dancing on your grave, I'm going to have enough to do at the Ministry without having to wait in line in my spare time, too."

That did it. Glaring daggers at the dark-haired boy, Snape turned and sailed through the wall into the next room.

"Good _riddance,_" Harry said to the wall, then turned to his best mates. "Can we eat?"

Hermione had recovered her equanimity very quickly. "Right, the house-elves are bringing breakfast outside," she said brusquely. "No one wanted to eat in the Hall where . . ." she swallowed.

"I get it," Harry said heavily. The three headed outside into the bright sunshine. Harry looked around, surprised to see how few people there were. "Where is everyone?" he asked his friends.

"Well, most people left for their homes last night," Hermione explained. "I couldn't sleep, so after you passed . . . went to bed, I was wandering around down here. The kids mostly all went to Aberforth's to Floo home, which was a good idea. I mean, can you imagine if you were a parent and your kid didn't come home last night? I'd be going out of my skull."

"Mum gave me an arseache over wanting to stay here," Ron offered. "I guess she wanted all her kids with her, after . . . Fred." He forced a smile. "But she's got all the others, so I stayed here."

Harry sympathised with Mrs. Weasley, who, having lost one of her brood, would naturally want to keep an eye on her remaining chicks. Still, considering the size of the Weasley clan, she'd have all the support she needed. Ron was more important at Hogwarts, and Harry was touched by his refusal to leave. As they sat in the shade of a large oak tree, a house-elf wearing the uniform Hogwarts tea towel came running up to them. "What is Masters and Miss liking to eat?" she squeaked.

Ron was ready. "Bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, _no mushrooms, _toast, tea, bangers and mash, fruit salad," he rattled off promptly. Harry stared; Ron looked pleased with himself. "We've been eating mushrooms for months. I've had that all planned out for a long time," he explained.

Hermione was not amused. "Next time we'll bring your mother so she can cook you breakfast every morning," she snapped before addressing the elf. "May I have the same?"

"And me," Harry added.

"Twinky is bringing it straight away!" the elf exclaimed before Disapparating with a _pop._

Hermione settled back against the tree and frowned up at the branches. "Now that McGonagall is headmistress, we've got to get the house-elves wearing clothes," she said firmly.

Ron gaped at her. "Could we at least rebuild the castle first?" he asked sarcastically.

"Ronald, you really are an arse," she said loftily. "The elves have been slaves for centuries, and they fought for us last night. They deserve their freedom."

"If they've been enslaved for centuries, what's another couple of weeks?" Ron asked, and quite reasonably, Harry thought. Hermione didn't deign to answer, and in any case, the elf was back with their breakfast. All three tore into the food like ravenous wolves. Harry's queasy stomach didn't balk at the influx of solids as much as he thought it would. Eating outside is always good for the appetite, which had made for some rough times when they were camping in the woods and, yes, living on stewed mushrooms. Today it was a blessing, and soon not a scrap of food was left.

While they ate, Harry briefly explained Snape's circumstances, to which Ron gave a snort of disgust. "He's always around when you don't want him and never when you do," he said through a mouthful of eggs.

"When did you _ever_ want Snape around?" Harry questioned him. Ron shrugged.

No sooner had Harry downed the contents of his teacup when he heard, "Potter!" He turned to see the source of the summons. Professor McGonagall stood framed in the main doorway with Kingsley Shacklebolt by her side. Harry got up and dusted the grass off his trousers; Ron and Hermione followed suit. The trio left the remains of their breakfast on the lawn and headed for the castle.

Kingsley smiled at Harry as he climbed the stairs, his white teeth glistening in the sun. "Harry, good to see you," he said, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.

"You, too," Harry said, grinning back. "Minister."

"Harry, Kingsley and I would like to speak with you and your friends. I'm not up for climbing the stairs again, so let's sit in here," Professor McGonagall said. She turned and walked towards the Great Hall; Harry followed Kingsley and heard Ron and Hermione fall into step behind him.

They sat at the end of one of the tables, as far from the bodies of the fallen as possible. "Now," McGonagall began, "we have a big job ahead of us. The castle, as you can see, is in need of, well, a bit of a tidy-up. Kingsley has his own fun job reconstructing the Ministry, so while he'll be available in an emergency, it's really left up to me, as headmistress, to deal with Hogwarts. I'm counting on the three of you; we need every pair of hands we can get, of course, but the Order is needed at the Ministry, and without you I just won't be able to handle it."

"Of course. Is the Order still . . . erm, up?" Harry asked awkwardly. _Up. Good job,_ he chastened himself.

Kingsley steepled his fingers. "The original purpose of the Order was to stop Voldemort," he began. "That's been done, of course, but now . . . the Ministry, up to this point, was for all intents and purposes run _by_ Voldemort. Only a very few employees that continued, like Arthur, were still on our side. And, of course, right at the end, even Arthur and the others had gone into hiding.

"I may be Minister now, but I'm pretty much _the_ Ministry," he continued. "Those who were part of the Order are, with a few outside exceptions, the only ones we can trust to form a new staff. So to answer your question, Harry, yes, the Order is still, erm, up, as you so eloquently phrased it," he finished with a grin. Harry felt his face grow hot.

"So I take it we're finally allowed to join?" Ron asked grumpily. "Now that all the dangerous stuff is over?"

"Ronald, don't be childish," Hermione admonished him.

"We need your help, all three of you, very much," Kingsley answered. He turned to Harry. "Harry, Minerva told me long ago how you wished to become an Auror. While we definitely need Aurors now, and while I'll be glad to have you as soon as possible, I really need you here right now. This is where all the action was, and I don't know anyone else I can count on for what has to be done. Can you possibly understand?"

Harry warmed at the man's pleading tone. He really wasn't that disappointed, anyway. There'd be time enough later. "I've had enough of chasing Death Eaters for a while," he said in a deliberately offhand manner. "I wouldn't mind a break."

Kingsley threw back his head and laughed. "Good man," he said approvingly. "Right, so let's get down to it." He turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, since I'd like people to be able to actually read it afterward, would you mind being our secretary?" She nodded eagerly. "I'm going to tell you things to write down, but feel free to add anything you think of," he said, addressing all three with the last part. "I'm not Dumbledore, and I'm not going to think of everything."

Hermione conjured a quill, ink, and a clipboard with several sheets of parchment; Harry looked at her gratefully. She always knew just what to do. He'd be needing her help desperately if they were to fix Hogwarts; Harry was sure that whatever rebuilding needed to be done would need some pretty advanced magic, and he was dreading having people find out that the Boy Who Lived, saviour of the Wizarding world, vanquisher of Voldemort, the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, knew little more practical magic than a Squib.

He turned back to Kingsley and McGonagall. "First," he began, "we should owl the families of all those who need to . . ." he hesitated. "Those with bodies to claim." Harry twirled the ink bottle in his fingers. "That's the most important thing, because we can't really get started with the cleanup until then."

"Harry," Ron interrupted. Harry looked up. Ron's face was suddenly very sad, and Harry knew he was thinking of Fred. "There's going to be a problem. A _lot_ of people are either in Azkaban or on the run. It'll be days, _weeks_ even, before we get to everyone, and really," he continued, "I bet we'll find a lot of them are dead, too."

"And even if we let everyone out of prison today," Hermione interjected, "they're not going to be up to funeral arrangements first thing. We need to store the bodies in the meantime."

"How do you deal with this — with . . . storage — in the Wizarding world?" Harry asked. Funny, of all the things he'd learned about magic, little tidbits that contrasted so starkly with the way Muggles handled the world, there were just some things that it never occurred to him to ask until he was smack in the middle of a pressing situation.

"Magic can be used to preserve bodies, much like that fimeld — . . . fimard —" Kingsley stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

"Formaldehyde?" Harry asked, amused.

"Right, that. There's a spell that I'll teach you, and that'll take care of preservation," he continued. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "It would be best to move them out of the Hall, though. That was temporary."

"But where?" Ron asked. "The dungeons?"

"That doesn't seem . . . right, somehow," Hermione said slowly. "But I think it's the most viable option. Spell or no spell, it's hot as Hades outside, and the dungeons are cool at least. And they're out of sight. I guess I just don't like the idea of, say, Mrs. Creevey coming to pick up her son down there."

Harry felt a lump forming in his throat. He'd watched Oliver Wood carry Colin's tiny body into the Great Hall the night before. Colin had always been the one to tag after Harry, wanting so badly to be just like his hero. He'd only been sixteen, and too young to fight, but despite his slight frame, Colin was indeed a Gryffindor. Now, for once, that eager little boy who'd tried to take a picture of a basilisk in his first year had gone somewhere Harry could not. It would be many, many years before he caught up to Colin this time.

"Erm, what are we to do about . . . him?" Hermione asked.

"Who, Crackpot?" Ron asked. McGonagall gave him a disapproving look over her spectacles. "I vote we burn him."

"Mr. Weasley," the headmistress began.

"No, really," Harry interrupted her. "I agree. Nobody wants his body in the ground, it just isn't right. Some things need to be . . . finished."

"I'm with them," Kingsley told McGonagall. "When the Ministry destroys Dark objects, they use Fiendfyre in a controlled environment. We'll do the same with . . . him."

"Does it have to be in London?" Harry asked. "How will we get him there?" He had a mental image of someone spinning madly through the Floo with Voldemort's upright corpse in some obscene parody of a waltz and fought the insane urge to laugh.

"The thestrals can carry him," Kingsley said. "That's pretty much what they're used for, carrying large objects that you can't Apparate with or take through the Floo."

"What about the others, later?" Hermione inquired. "Will we need carriages for everyone? There'll be a . . . backlog."

Kingsley shook his head. "Portkeys will work fine for the others," he replied. "Now, Minerva, hear me out. To be blunt, you're no spring chicken."

She looked offended. "I beg your pardon," she began, but Kingsley continued as if he hadn't heard her.

"It's a very important job to see that the families of the dead are notified. Important, but at the same time sedentary. If you can work on that, it'll keep the rest of them free to do the heavy lifting and so on. Besides, it's some comfort to hear from the headmistress herself. Everyone knows who you are."

McGonagall still looked miffed, but she nodded agreement. "Very well."

"As for you three," he addressed Ron, Harry, and Hermione, "I'm going to tell you off the top of my head what needs to be done. It doesn't all need to be done today, and you may, of course, delegate anything you need, but you have to supervise and, above all, prioritize. First," he said, checking off items on his fingers, "is to move all of . . . our people to the dungeons. Second, prepare the thestrals to carry . . . it . . . to London. Dumbledore kept a carriage here, I don't know where, exactly —"

"I do," McGonagall cut in.

"Great. Third, Poppy is taking care of the injured, but check with her to see if anyone needs to be transferred to St. Mungo's. Fourth, when the carriage for . . . the thing . . . comes back, send it again with the Death Eaters. The Ministry will need to confirm their identities so we know who's still at large. Do not, under any circumstances, try to fix the actual structure of the building, like the walls or roofs. They held powerful enchantments, and you'll need to consult with Dumbledore's portrait about the spells. A simple _Reparo_ isn't going to make the castle either secure _or_ safe.

"That's enough for a start. I'll be back every couple of days to check on things here, but for now," he stood up from the table, "I've got to get back." Everyone stood up and shook hands with the Minister before he headed up to the head's office to Floo back to the Ministry. "Miss Granger, come here a moment, and I'll teach you that preservation spell."

While Hermione was huddled with Kingsley in the corner, Harry turned to McGonagall. "Ron and Hermione and I are going to get Snape's body from the Shrieking Shack," he informed her, "and then we'll come back and start bringing everyone down to the dungeons."

"Right, then. I'll be in my office being feeble," she said, obviously still bitter at the Minister. "If I can even _find my way there._" With that, she swept out of the room. Hermione returned to find both boys sniggering, and after Kingsley left, they walked out onto the grounds towards the Whomping Willow.

"Oh, Hermione, wait a sec," Harry said, turning back around. "Where did we leave the basilisk fangs? Those shouldn't be lying around."

"We took them into the Room of Requirement, remember?" she answered. "They would have been destroyed by the Fiendfyre."

"Oh, right," he said, relieved, resuming his pace. Then another question occurred to him. He faced them again, but without stopping, walking somewhat sideways. "Oi, I wondered about something. I thought it was odd enough that you got _into _the Chamber, 'cause I didn't think you could just learn Parseltongue, but the entrance to it was, like, a straight drop. Fawkes had to fly us out of there. How did you two get out?"

Ron halted, Harry and Hermione following suit. He stared without expression until Harry began to fidget uncomfortably. "Are you calling us liars?" he finally asked in a low tone.

Harry was shocked. "No, no way, I wasn't saying that, I just . . . I wondered, is all . . ." Ron's gaze hadn't wavered. Hermione didn't say anything. "Right, then," Harry said awkwardly. "Well . . ." He started again in the direction of the Shack, and this time he didn't stop or look back.

Snape's body was just where they'd left it the night before, and in spite of himself Harry was startled to see the slack face of the man whom he'd been speaking with just over an hour ago. "How do we . . .?"

"I'll get it," Hermione said gently. For once, she didn't sound smug about her superior magical skills. She pulled out her wand and levitated Snape's body to about waist level, then muttered, _"Mobilicorpus"_ as she propelled it toward the passageway.

Harry had the worst sense of déjà vu as they headed through the tunnel back to the school. Ron may not be limping, but the scene still mirrored uncomfortably the one after revealing Peter Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack. Just like then, Snape's lifeless body was being pushed along by the same spell. This time, though, Sirius, Remus, and Peter were missing. Dead. Harry felt such a rush of longing for Sirius that he had to stop and lean against the dirt wall of the tunnel, his forehead resting on his closed fist.

"Harry?" Hermione had stopped, noticing his footsteps were no longer trailing her. Leaving Snape floating, she came back to him and squeezed his shoulder. "You all right?"

"I miss Sirius," he said thickly. She nodded her understanding. He knew that the eerie parallel of their current situation could not have escaped her. He felt her arms wrap gently around his chest, and though Ron didn't touch him, Harry was comforted by his presence. They stood like that for a few minutes before she let go and said quietly, "We should go."

The memory of that night four years ago had been so clear that Harry was startled to step out of the tunnel into bright sunshine. He had fully expected it to be dark out. "Right, then, so . . . where should we bury him?"

"I thought we were bringing him to the dungeons," Ron said in confusion.

"It doesn't seem . . . right," Harry answered slowly. "I just assumed he'd be buried on the grounds. He doesn't have any family, and this was his favourite place in the world." He looked to Hermione. "I'll go with your opinion," he told her.

"I agree," she said simply. "But where?"

"Let's bury him in the pumpkin patch next to Aragog," Ron suggested. This struck Harry as incredibly funny, and he ended up bent double from the onslaught of giggles.

"Let's . . . let's . . ." Ron could barely breathe, let alone talk. "Let's throw him in the lake for the Giant Squid to play with."

Hermione stood looking at them, her arms crossed. All the while, Snape's body continued to float, bumping her hip a few times. Finally, she spoke. "If you two are quite finished, I see a nice spot under that tree over there. When you're ready, come find me." She turned on her heel and left, the corpse following her like some macabre satellite.

Harry and Ron followed, but collapsed again after Harry got to the top of the hill and commented, "Oh, good, he can see the ducks on the lake from here."

Hermione looked thoroughly disgusted. With her wand, she savagely cleared out a six-foot-deep space in the ground. She took a small box from her pocket and tossed it to Harry. "Kingsley left us these," she said.

"Coriander's Collapsible Coffins," he read, and made the unfortunate mistake of looking at Ron. After that, neither boy was good for much, and it was Hermione who expanded the coffin, levitated Snape's corpse into it, and lowered the closed box into the hole.

"Right, now we each throw in a handful of dirt," Ron said, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.

"You do that? I mean, wizards do?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Well, I just thought it might be different, since it's not like people actually dig the graves or fill them up manually," she replied.

"It's just a gesture," Ron said, picking up his handful and letting it drop. Harry went next, then Hermione, who then cast a spell that caused all the dirt to neatly fill up the hole, leaving only a small mound. Just like she had at Harry's parents' grave, she conjured a wreath of roses and laid it on the mound.

The three stood awkwardly around Snape's final resting place. _Except it really isn't,_ Harry thought. He thought it odd that he didn't feel sad at all, but then again, he'd been in a rather fragile state when he'd viewed Snape's memories in the Pensieve the night before. It was easy then to feel all choked up, especially since the memories mostly involved his mother. Now, in the light of day, he wasn't as moved. Particularly since the man hadn't exactly left, or even mellowed at all.

* * *

The rest of the day was grueling. Harry and Ron had to learn the hard way how to perfect the _Mobilicorpus_ spell, so they wisely confined their first attempts to dead Death Eaters. That way, they didn't have to feel bad about bumping the bodies into walls or accidentally dropping them on the ground. The Death Eaters were confined to a separate dungeon than those who had fought against them.

The Weasleys, sans Ron, were all at the Burrow arranging for Fred's burial, and most of the others had gone home to their families. Oliver Wood had stayed to help, though, as well as Luna and Neville. Slughorn was busy in the dungeons brewing as many medicinal potions as he could; both Madam Pomfrey and St. Mungo's were running out fast. The rest of the staff were at the Ministry, helping Kingsley. Voldemort's body was packed into the school's carriage, and the thestrals, driven by Hagrid, also set off for the Ministry in London. Harry knew he'd feel better when he heard that the body had been burnt in Fiendfyre.

They all worked right up until dinnertime, and at last the Great Hall was empty. Everyone suddenly became very neurotic about cleaning spells, and desultory mutterings of _"Scourgify," "Incendio,"_ and _"Aguamenti"_ could be heard throughout the room. Finally, the tables and benches were in their proper places and the room looked almost normal. They would check with Dumbledore's portrait on the major repairs the next day.

The trio finally retired to Gryffindor Tower around nine. This time, Neville and Ron shared the room with Harry, since he wasn't, as they put it, "piss drunk out of his mind." Harry had to force himself to stay awake for a shower, although the hot water and clean clothes afterward felt like a slice of heaven.

Hermione was in the room when he got back, lying across Seamus's bed. The four sat in silence for a while, just trying to shake off the day.

"I've been thinking," Hermione said suddenly. "Harry, we really should go hunt for the Resurrection Stone. It still works, even if it's broken, and besides being something that should be preserved because of its part in the war, it's a powerful magical object. We don't want it falling into the wrong hands."

"Who's going to find it?" Ron whined. "I'm not up for a trek in the Forest. What are the odds someone will stumble on it?"

"What were the odds that Harry just happened to use Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, also known as Horcrux #5, as a place marker when he hid that old Potions text?" Hermione challenged. Ron fell silent. "Look, _I'll_ get it," she said impatiently. "You two don't have to come. I just wanted to let you know what I was thinking."

"Thanks for the update." Ron was sore at her and didn't bother to hide it. Hermione glared at him as she got up and stalked toward the door.

"You're going _now?_" Harry asked, startled.

"Might as well." Harry looked helplessly at Ron, who rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Well, I'm going to sleep. If she wants to run around in the dark, so be it. Why the bloody hell it couldn't wait for morning . . ." Ron got under the covers. Harry knew he'd be snoring in minutes. He took off his glasses and laid them on the night table, then crawled into bed. Merlin, the sheets felt so good . . . his muscles were wound tight as springs, and he sank gratefully into the mattress. The pillow was as soft as a cloud, and Harry . . . was . . . so . . . tired . . .

"Psst." Harry opened one eye and groaned when he saw Snape floating next to the bed. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow.

"POTTER!"

"_What?"_ Harry snapped, his voice muffled.

"I forgot to tell you something," Snape insisted. "It's important."

"What?"

"I want to be cremated."


	3. The Call Every Mother Dreads

**Chapter Three: The Call Every Mother Dreads**

_Twenty-six._

No, wait. There were two more right past that holly bush. _Twenty-eight._

_. . . four, five, six, seven._ Plus a clump of elephant grass.

Done counting fence pickets and bushes, Harry searched for other calculable items in his range of vision. He'd already counted the stones that bordered the front walkway and the buds on a lone rosebush by the gate. He was ready to start on the leaves of the oak tree. Anything to keep from having to walk up and knock on that door.

It was some special kind of weird, really. He'd defeated the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time, and _several_ times, at that. He'd battled dragons, dodged Death Eaters, destroyed Horcruxes, and was dealing quite well with the fact that even Snape's death wasn't going to keep the man from torturing him.

But he was afraid of Andromeda Tonks.

Well, not afraid of _her,_ exactly. But he would pretty much give all the gold in his vault at Gringotts not to have to talk to her just now. She had already lost her husband after being burnt off the Black family tree for having the audacity to marry him in the first place. Now Harry had to tell her that her only daughter and her son-in-law were gone, too.

McGonagall had been in charge of writing the families of the fallen. Unlike Harry, however, she'd been communicating with the Order all along, and knew that Remus and Dora had left Teddy with his grandmother for safekeeping. As a half-breed, Teddy had been especially vulnerable to the Ministry's "cleansing." The house was protected by the Fidelius Charm, but McGonagall knew that Harry would want to break the news himself. After all, Teddy Lupin was his godson. And Teddy didn't have much left in the way of family.

Arthur, the Tonks' Secret-Keeper, had provided Harry with the address. He had been here before, of course, but the strength of the Fidelius Charm was such that without Arthur's compliance, he could have been standing by this very gate, counting the panes in the front windows, without ever realising that the woman he was looking for lived there.

Finally, Harry had to admit that he couldn't just stand outside all day, flaking paint off the pickets with his fingernail. There was too much to be done back at Hogwarts, and he still had to visit Mrs. Creevey. He opened the gate, and bracing himself for the inevitable, walked resolutely up the stone pathway and thumped the brass knocker.

Harry heard movement inside the house, and footsteps skittering about the entryway, but the door did not open immediately. Instead, a harsh voice, so very much altered from the night he and Hagrid had sought refuge here, barked, "Who's that?"

"It's Harry Potter, Mrs. Tonks," he answered. "Arthur told me where I could find you."

He heard the sharp snap of a bolt being hastily disengaged, then silence.

"You can ask me something if you need to," he offered. Andromeda, of course, had no way of knowing that things were safe now. And really, there were still Death Eaters at large.

There was a pause, then, "Which Portkey did you and Hagrid use to leave our home last year?"

Harry frowned. He could barely remember what he'd had to eat before leaving this morning. And he'd been slightly distracted on the night in question, possibly a side effect of falling out of the sky on an enchanted motorbike after being ambushed by flying Death Eaters. "Erm . . . let me think," he hedged. Her hand jostled the bolt. "Oh, wait, it was a hairbrush, right? That's it," he said, relieved.

The latch clicked as Andromeda threw the door open the rest of the way. "Harry," she exclaimed, pulling him into the front hallway and wrapping him in a hug. "Harry, thanks be to Merlin, you're all right," she murmured into his hair. Harry was taken aback at her warmth, as his behaviour toward this woman at their last meeting had been anything but courteous. After all, he'd been rather disconcerted by Andromeda's strong resemblance to her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. But she was greeting him as a long-lost son who had finally come home.

"Mrs. Tonks," he began awkwardly.

"Oh, honestly, Harry," she chuffed, pulling back from the embrace. "Andromeda."

"Right, well . . . see, Andr— . . . well, I'm here to —"

"You'll get used to it," she said, dismissing his awkwardness with a wave of her hand. Harry could see that all her fingernails were ragged, bitten right down to the quick, and the inky hair that framed her face was losing its own war to the grey invaders. Andromeda was probably about forty-five, but looked ten years older. Her trembling hands were now smoothing his hair away from his face. "Your hair is so long," she said.

"Yeah, I know, I need to get it cut," he said inanely.

"Have you seen Nymphadora?" she asked him suddenly, her fingers tightening against his head. "And my son-in-law? Are they all right? They haven't been here in three days, and I've barely slept, worrying."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat before speaking. "See, two nights ago . . . there was a battle at Hogwarts. Voldemort is dead now, but . . ." Her eyes were piercing him to the core. "Remus and Ton— . . . and Nymphadora were both, um, they were killed. In the battle." He tensed up, waiting for the explosion.

Andromeda surprised him. She let go of his face and began wringing her hands, but didn't cry or anything. "Now, Harry, that hardly makes sense," she said in a reasoning tone. "They only left the baby here for his safety. They're _always_ over here. Why, Nymphadora just came by a few days ago! She was holding Teddy, and every time his hair changed colour, she'd change hers to match. You should have heard him laugh!" She turned and headed toward the kitchen. "They should be here tonight, even. I'm making Remus his favourite dinner, although I imagine the steak will be too well cooked for his tastes. I can't have him getting sick over raw meat, really."

"Andromeda," Harry tried to interrupt, but she was having none of it.

"You'll stay to tea, too, won't you, darling?" Andromeda continued. "Teddy's asleep just now, but you just have to see him. You've only seen pictures, but he's getting so fat! Dora — she _hates _it when I call her Nymphadora — thinks I spoil him too much, but it's not as if I'm feeding him sweets, after all!" She was pacing the length of the kitchen as she blathered on. "Why, I puree fresh vegetables from the garden, and Dora _would_ breastfeed. He only gets the formula if she's kept away too long; real milk doesn't keep too well, even with magic." She saw Harry's face and stopped. "I'm sorry, dear, that's probably more than you wanted to know, wasn't it?" she laughed nervously. "Well, anyway, I don't _stuff _him, poor baby. When he gets full, he turns away from the food; it's that simple."

Harry took advantage of her needing a breather to step in. "Andromeda, please, if you'll just listen for a second —"

"Don't tell me to stop talking," she said, in more of a bewildered voice than an angry one. "Can't you see if I stop talking I'll start screaming?" She fiddled with the towel hanging from the oven handle.

"Go ahead," Harry answered her gently. "But I think you'll just end up scaring Teddy, and that's not going to help us."

"Oh, yes, Teddy," Andromeda rejoined nervously, flitting towards the stairs. "Come see Teddy, Harry. Come see your godson. I'll expect you to spoil him, now, just spoil him rotten. He'll need you around, because . . . because . . ." She stopped on the first stair, and Harry was horrified to see her sinking down onto the carpeting, still clutching the banister. He hurried over as she finished with, "Because he doesn't have any other family now." With that, she burst into tears.

Harry hopped up onto the stair above her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Andromeda's hand slipped from the railing and gripped his forearm with her bony fingers, her thin body wracking with sobs. Harry, not knowing what to do, shushed the crying woman as he fought back his own tears.

They stayed like that for a long time. Harry felt odd holding a woman old enough to have a grandson as if she were a child, but it seemed to comfort her. Her tears were dwindling when Teddy woke up and the sound of his fussing came from upstairs. Andromeda pushed against Harry and stood up. "Come see Teddy," she repeated, wiping her eyes and giving him a small smile. "He's so sweet, Harry. Just like . . . like Dora was."

Harry followed her upstairs, noting how her hands still shook as she clung to the railing. Teddy's room was decorated with a vintage Winnie-the-Pooh motif; the curtains, wallpaper border, and crib canopy depicted Tigger, Piglet, Pooh, Rabbit, and pots labeled "Hunny" tilted at various angles. The walls were painted a very pale gold, which shone brilliantly in the sunshine that spilled in the room. Harry could smell talcum powder and lotion. It was such a happy room, and Harry felt a tiny bit better. His godson would at least have a loving home.

Andromeda was lowering the side of the crib. "Gaaaaaaaah!" Teddy yelled, and Harry could see his little feet kicking, though the rest of him was blocked by his grandmother.

"Did you say 'Grandmum'?" she cooed, picking him up and cuddling him to her chest.

"Gwum!"

"Close enough," Andromeda laughed, turning around so Harry could see the baby. The minute Teddy saw his visitor, he burst into giggles, holding out one tiny fist.

"I don't look _that_ funny," Harry said, pretending to be injured. He came closer, and Teddy's hair, which had been blue, changed to green. Andromeda started to hand him the baby, but he didn't want to take the tiny bundle. "I've never held a baby," he said uncertainly.

"Oh, don't be silly," she chided. "Here, see?" She kept one hand under Teddy's head and one under his diapered rump. "Just hold out your arms as if he's there." Harry complied, and she deftly deposited the baby into the little nest Harry's arms made. His bicep made a natural pillow for Teddy's little head, which wasn't any bigger than a coconut. Teddy reached up and pawed at Harry with his tiny little fingers, and Harry felt himself falling instantly and irrevocably in love.

Andromeda watched with a smile on her haggard face. She indicated the rocking chairs behind Harry, and they both sat down. "Dora didn't want Teddy out of her arms when she was here," Andromeda said, settling back against her chair. "We'd just sit in here and talk for hours. Remus would sit on the floor, and sometimes he'd wrestle his son away, but he didn't get to come as often as she did. The Order didn't want to work her too hard, because of the baby."

Harry carefully slid the hand not supporting Teddy's head out and experimentally tickled his stomach. Teddy squealed with laughter, his little knees curling inward to protect his tummy.

Andromeda was drumming her fingers nervously. "Harry, please come and stay here," she suddenly urged. "For tonight, at least, but from now on if you want to. There's plenty of room, and it'll be better for Teddy to grow up with some male influence. After all, what does an old woman who only ever had a daughter know about raising a boy?" she asked wistfully.

Harry was touched. "I'll have to think about that," he said delicately. "Right now, there's just so much to do at the school, and as for tonight . . . I have to visit Vera Creevey. Her son Colin . . . he died that night, too." He swallowed. How could he deal with Mrs. Creevey after this? Andromeda had been upset enough, but her daughter was an Auror and her son-in-law a werewolf. Surely she'd known their deaths were a distinct possibility even before things went to hell in a handcart last year. But Colin was only sixteen, and most of the kids had gotten out fine. Dennis would be home now, in fact.

Andromeda stood up. "I'll go with you," she announced decisively, reaching under the changing table and pulling out a diaper bag. As Harry watched, she began filling it up with Teddy's things.

"You don't have to," he began, but hoped she would, anyway. He hadn't thought of her coming, but surely having a woman there would be better for Colin's family.

"Neither do you, really," she rejoined, tightening the cap on the talcum bottle. "But you're going in person. Why?"

Harry found it hard to explain. "He was my . . . my friend." But was it true? He hadn't been as nice to Colin as he could have.

"And you're mine."

* * *

The Creevey house was an old-style Tudor with a very well-kept front garden. Harry had his doubts about Apparating with a baby, but Andromeda turned on her heel and vanished as if she'd done it frequently, and Harry simply followed suit. Now they were standing at the front door, Teddy gazing at the tinkling wind chimes hung from the archway in wonder.

"I kept meaning to get wind chimes for Teddy," Andromeda said in a low voice. "They're supposed to help a baby sleep." Harry nodded, understanding that, far from being flippant, she was helping him delay knocking on the door. But he felt so much better now that he wasn't alone, and he didn't have to count the leaves on the hanging ivy plant before thumping on the door.

There was a small rectangular window on each side of the door, and the thin curtain that covered the right-hand one twitched. Harry stood back so whoever it was could see him, and almost immediately the door opened inward. A woman who couldn't have been more than thirty-five but looked twenty stood there, and she looked so much like Colin and Dennis that Harry wondered uneasily if the boys had a Squib sister.

"Harry Potter," she said. "My sons talk about you so much, you'd think we were related."

Harry was taken aback. "Erm, thanks," he stammered.

"Dennis came home two nights ago and said there was an attack on the castle, that Colin pushed him through the Floo. He wanted to go back, but I closed up the fireplace." She looked right into Harry's eyes. "He's dead, isn't he? My boy." Harry nodded, and her face crumpled. "I felt it," she whispered, "but I kept hoping I was wrong." Vera stood back, wiping at her face with one cotton sleeve. "Come in."

Harry followed Andromeda, whose arms were full of Teddy, into the hallway, where he deposited the diaper bag. Vera led them into the parlour, where she'd evidently spent the night, as the throw pillows were all disarranged on the sofa and a blanket lay carelessly thrown back. Harry noticed that the sofa faced the fireplace, and as he passed, he could feel a heaviness in the air over there.

Vera noticed his hesitation. "I placed wards there so Dennis couldn't get through," she explained. "I told you I knew Colin was dead, but I slept here ever since anyway. I just thought that maybe . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she sank down onto the sofa cushions. Andromeda sat next to her, and Teddy reached out until Vera took him in her arms. She held him tight against her chest, rubbing his back gently as she cried. Andromeda had an arm around the woman's slight shoulders, and the two mothers grieved together over their children that would never call them "Mum" again.

Harry wandered away, leaving the two to comfort each other. His hands in his pockets, he made to sit down on the main staircase. But before he could sink down and lean his head against the balustrade, he heard a sniff above him and looked up to find the source. Dennis was sitting on the top step, his face tracked with tears.

Filled with compassion for Colin's young brother, Harry climbed the stairs and sat next to the skinny fifteen-year-old. Both boys stared at their hands for a few moments in silence. Finally, Dennis spoke.

"Colin really liked you," he said. His voice was stuffy, as if he had a cold. "Couldn't shut his trap the summer after his first year. He could be annoying."

Harry didn't know what to say. "I . . . sometimes I got cross with him, like when he tried to take a picture of Ron spitting up slugs. But he was just eager. Not mean like some other people. I wish . . . I wish I'd gotten to know him better. He was really nice."

"That's right," Dennis agreed. "Not a bit of meanness in Colin. Even to me. Mum couldn't understand it; she said her brothers always fought like magpies. But he never teased me or hurt me. When I got to Hogwarts, he'd already told me all about it, every little detail. Wrote to me all the time. That's why I wasn't afraid when I fell in the lake; Colin even told me about the Giant Squid."

"I remember," Harry said, smiling for the first time that day. "You came in all wet, bundled up in Hagrid's coat, but smiling like your face would crack. I wasn't in the least surprised the Hat put you in with us Gryffies."

Dennis smiled back, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "One of my roommates was all flipped out that night. Said his brother told him that House Prefects picked their students out, like choosing teams for games at school, and that if there was an odd number, the remainders got sent home. He always used to get picked last, so he was sure he'd get chucked." Harry could certainly sympathise; he'd always been the last one chosen, too. Dennis picked at his trouser seam. "Colin was never mean like that. We'd wrestle and stuff, and he'd hide my homework until we were about to miss the bus back in primary school, but I was never scared of him, and he never made me cry." Fresh tears were running down his face, and he ducked his head in shame. "Until now."

Harry reached over and pulled the little guy close in a one-armed hug. "I cried, too, Dennis," he said reassuringly. "When I saw him, I felt like sicking up. He was so brave."

"At least Mum can be proud of one of her sons," Dennis mumbled.

Harry was shocked. "How can you say that?" he demanded.

"I should have stayed, too," Dennis rejoined with another sniffle.

"You're only fifteen!" Harry exclaimed. "Only those of age were supposed to stay."

"Colin stayed," Dennis argued. "I would have too, honest. But I was trying not to get separated from him, and he kept pushing us along. I had his camera; he'd dropped it on the way, but I picked it up for him." Dennis gave a derisive snort. "Mum always said Colin would probably take his camera to Armageddon. Then when I came out of the Floo here, he wasn't with me. And then she came rushing into the room, and I couldn't go back, 'cause she was clutching at me, and . . ." He put his head in his hands. "He must have turned back once he knew I was safe."

"So you each wanted the other home safely, but if you'd known his plan, you would have stayed," Harry summarised.

Dennis nodded. "I could have saved him, maybe," he sobbed.

Harry gave him an exasperated swat on the back of the head. "Dennis, we said no under-seventeens for a reason. It's not about age per se, or even size or strength; it's the magic you've learned. You're two years behind the youngest fighters, and even the adults were sometimes no match for the Death Eaters!" The young boy didn't look convinced. "How do you think your mother would feel if she'd lost you, too?" Harry asked as a last resort. "You'd want her to be all alone?"

Dennis looked appalled. "Of course not," he exclaimed. "Dad died four years ago, right before I came to Hogwarts, and she was so sad. She cried enough when Colin left for school, but when I went, she had to go stay with Grandmum for a while. Said she couldn't stand the empty house."

"Sometimes being brave doesn't mean fighting," Harry said, wondering where the insight was coming from. _It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what . . . _"Sometimes it means _not_ doing what's exciting, because other people need you with them. You're the only one your mum's got left now, and I'll bet she's so grateful."

Dennis looked pensive. "Guess so," he muttered. "I just feel useless."

"I know the feeling," Harry sighed, thinking of how Voldemort had taunted him with his greatest fear: that Harry had always let others die so that he could live. "But you know, there's a lot to be done right now. The castle's a mess, and there's almost no one in the new Ministry. Maybe you could come back with us and help with the castle, and your mum could get a job at the Ministry. That'll take your minds off things."

"Wicked!" Dennis shouted. He wasn't leaking tears anymore, and actually looked excited. "Mum had a job for a while as a Muggle liaison, but they chucked her when she protested an attack on the Prime Minister . . . you know, the _other_ Minister." Harry smiled and nodded; Vera was just what they were looking for. "Let's go tell her!" Dennis exclaimed, vaulting off the top step and thundering down the staircase. "Mum!" he shouted, running into the parlour. "Harry says I can go help clean up the school, and maybe you can help the Ministry! Can we, Mum? Can we?"

Vera's and Andromeda's conversation halted. Vera looked uncertain. "I don't know, hon," she said slowly. "I don't like the idea of you being off where I can't see you, even though Andromeda says it's all over." She looked to Harry for help.

"Well, I'm not going to lie to you, there're probably still a few Death Eaters around," Harry admitted. "But let's face it, last time Voldemort" — Vera's face blanched — "fell, they didn't do much afterward. He's like . . . the master switch or something. The others don't work without him." Vera nodded, and seemed to understand the essence of his weak metaphor well enough.

"Kingsley, the new Minister, has only a few people he can trust to rebuild the Ministry," Harry continued. "Almost everyone that was there right at the end was either in league with the Death Eaters or at least willing to go along with their little Holocaust." His eyes darkened as he remembered that poor Mrs. Cattermole on trial, surrounded by dementors as she pleaded her blood status. "He'd be so happy to have you."

Vera nodded. "I understand," she said. Dennis was practically foaming at the mouth, and she glanced over at him. "And you said Dennis would help at Hogwarts?"

"That's right," Harry affirmed. "We're cleaning up the mess, and we're going to have to reconstruct the student roster to include all those that got banned over blood status. And . . ." He blew out his breath. "Hell, the list goes on."

"Mum, come on," Dennis pleaded. "Colin wouldn't want me to sit around. And I have to go back to school next year; how can I let other people do all the work?"

His mother smiled fondly at her remaining son. "I just want to keep you close," she said, and his ears turned pink with embarrassment. "But I guess I'm being selfish. You'll come home every night?"

"No, he won't," Andromeda spoke up, and they all looked at her, surprised. "Because you're both moving in with me." Vera opened her mouth, but Andromeda put her hand up. "I'm going to work at the Ministry, too. Kingsley won't mind my bringing Teddy along. And we'll all go home together at night. I don't fancy staying alone, either."

Vera looked relieved. "Well, that sounds like a plan," she said.

Harry took out the watch Mrs. Weasley had given him on his last birthday; it was already noon. "Why don't we head back to the school? The elves have been feeding us up like you wouldn't believe lately. I don't know what Ron and Hermione have planned for today, but at least you won't be here alone."

It was agreed, and Vera took down the wards around the fireplace. Harry saw a couple of tears steal down her cheeks; he knew she'd finally let go of the hope that Colin would step out of the grate. One by one, they took a pinch of powder and shouted, "Hogwarts!" Dennis was so excited that he caught his head on the low-hung mantel, but he just laughed and threw down his handful of powder.

Harry went last, and as he turned in the fireplace to face the room before leaving, he caught sight of a camera lying on the cocktail table. On an impulse, Harry pocketed the small item, which had to be the one Dennis grabbed from Colin. Whatever pictures were in there, he wanted to develop. If there really were some from that night, they should be published.

It was all Harry could think of to do for Colin, who would have walked through fire to hear Harry call him his friend.


	4. The Last Full Measure of Devotion

**Chapter Four: The Last Full Measure of Devotion**

With all the fireplaces at Hogwarts, Harry should have known enough to specify one when he stepped into the Floo, but apparently the default was McGonagall's old office, adjacent to the Transfiguration classroom. The others must have been waiting for them there; Harry had barely taken one dizzy step beyond the hearth when he was accosted by Hermione and Ron. He could see Dennis chattering excitedly with Andromeda and Mrs. Creevey a few feet away, and McGonagall was leaning against her old desk with several pieces of parchment in her hand.

"Oh, good, Mr. Potter, you're back. I was just about to leave for the Ministry," she said, looking appraisingly at the newcomers. "I see you've brought back an entourage."

"This is Dennis's mother, Vera Creevey," Harry offered, touching her arm. "Mrs. Creevey, Professor McGonagall is the — well, _was_ the Transfiguration teacher, although now she's the headmistress."

"We've met," McGonagall said dryly. "Vera was here at Hogwarts not so very long ago." The women shook hands as Harry flushed; he really should have known that much. "Both your sons always did very well in my class," McGonagall was saying. "I'm so sorry, though, about Colin." Vera nodded.

"Well, of course you know Dennis. And . . . but did you teach Andromeda?" Harry asked. He tried to do the math in his head, but he really wasn't sure how old Andromeda was. Probably in her mid-forties, and McGonagall should be on her fortieth year of teaching . . .

"Indeed," Andromeda smiled, gently patting Teddy's back; Harry couldn't figure out how his little godson could take the trip through the Floo so calmly. He was actually smiling! "I was never very good at Transfiguration, though. I preferred Charms."

"You preferred any class where you could get away with talking the whole time," McGonagall said severely. "Couldn't keep her mouth shut for ten seconds straight," she addressed the room. "Of course, Filius is the same way, so they got on smashingly."

"Well, Andromeda came with me to see Mrs. Creevey, and we all decided to come here; I figure we need all the help we can get," Harry explained.

"We just sent off the last load of Death Eaters with the thestrals," Ron informed Harry. His face darkened. "I don't really like how they got express service like that when there are plenty of our people still in the dungeons."

"Now, Mr. Weasley, the Minister just wants to make sure he knows which ones are still around . . . so they can be arrested," McGonagall answered. Ron looked somewhat appeased. She turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, I have to meet with Kingsley now to compare the list of our dead with the current inhabitants of Azkaban. To see if the any of the families match, that is. Only three bodies have been claimed so far."

Harry nodded. "How will they figure out who should be kept there and who gets released?" he wanted to know. "I know a lot of people got thrown in there arbitrarily under Thicknesse, but there have to be some that we don't want out."

McGonagall looked tired. "That's not going to be easy," she replied. "It wasn't complete chaos when Voldemort took over, and they did keep good records, thanks be to Merlin, so we'll have to go through the arrests and see what the official reason was for each person. If it sounds like the prisoner was just in for blood status or speaking against Voldemort, they'll be let go. But of course, there's no way to be absolutely certain."

"What's happening with those that were working at the Ministry under Voldemort?" Harry asked. He thought of Umbridge. "I know some of them, like Mr. Weasley, just stayed to do what they could. But plenty had to enjoy the evil stuff they were "forced" to do."

"It is rather complicated, as you can see," McGonagall replied. "After the pressing matters are taken care of here at the school, Kingsley will need your help. All three of you, and anyone else we know we can trust. We can't necessarily punish anyone who worked for the Ministry, because even if they weren't part of the Order, like Arthur, there's no crime in staying at a place because you're afraid for your life. I'd like to say that they should have fought when it came to the worst, like shoving people into Azkaban if they couldn't prove blood status, but . . . the Wizarding world just isn't big enough for one person to make a difference most of the time. And who am I to judge? I let plenty go on here at the school." The older woman looked away, ashamed.

"That isn't true!" Hermione cried. "What good would it have done for you to get fired? You did what you could, but you had to keep your job, or the students would have been totally at the mercy of the Carrows!"

McGonagall gave her a tiny smile. "That's how I justified it at the time, Miss Granger. I'll never know what would have happened if I'd spoken out. But I do hope that when you're called upon to judge the actions of the others — the Ministry employees, or even those imprisoned under Cornelius Fudge or Rufus Scrimgeour — that you'll be as forgiving when it's called for. There's a huge grey area, as you can see. It'll probably never all be sorted out. But we can only do our best." She sighed. "I'll be going, then."

"Wait," Harry objected. "Mrs. Creevey came because she wanted to help. Can she go with you? You said they need people at the Ministry."

"Every hand we can get," McGonagall answered.

Vera looked at Dennis, and Harry knew what she was thinking. Having lost one son — not to mention her husband, though it had been several years — she was probably loath to let the last of her family out of her sight. "Dennis can help us here. What are we doing today, anyway?" he asked Hermione.

She sighed. "Well, while you were gone, we packed up the Death Eaters — that part you heard — but Oliver and Ron and I were visiting Dumbledore's portrait earlier, and he gave us some instructions on how to begin the major repairs on the castle. It's complicated; it's almost like building things from scratch, because every layer has to have different spells on it. Neville, I know, is supposed to start on the grounds; they got pretty torn up in the fighting, and he and Professor Sprout are trying to repair the magical plants."

"What happened to the mandrakes?" Harry wanted to know. It was a stupid question, really, but he just wondered.

"Oh, they died, poor things," she answered. "They're not supposed to be out of the soil for longer than it takes to be replanted. But they took their share of Death Eaters with them."

"Great, more heroes to bury," Ron muttered.

Hermione gave him a contemptuous look. "Can I hold Teddy?" she asked Andromeda, changing the subject.

"Of course," Andromeda answered, handing him over. Teddy started laughing when he saw Hermione's bushy hair, and soon he was grabbing big chunks in his fists and yanking on it.

"Ow, Teddy, don't pull my hair out!" Hermione cried in a mock-angry voice. Teddy giggled even harder and kept pulling. "Owwwww!"

"Well, we'd best be going," McGonagall said, beckoning Vera over to the Floo. Vera gave Dennis a hug, which made the fifteen-year-old squirm in embarrassment, before following the headmistress.

"And we'd best be eating," Ron said eagerly.

Harry suddenly remembered something. "Hermione, please tell me you didn't actually go outside last night," he asked apprehensively.

Hermione averted her gaze. "Well, not exactly," she mumbled.

Ron gaped at her. "You had us all fired up over it, like it was some big emergency that we were too lazy to tackle, and you didn't even _go?_" he asked in consternation.

Harry felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. "I'm glad you didn't," he assured her. "We should go with you, but I was so damned tired last night. Well, I was until Snape . . . don't even get me started, but I was so pissed off after he woke me up, I totally forgot." He had practically screamed himself hoarse at the stupid git, and when Snape's ghost finally floated off to seek some other entertainment, Harry had been so agitated that he wouldn't have cared if Ginny stepped out of the Floo wearing only a pointed witch's hat and a smile just for him.

"I wanted to go," Hermione said, "because I really think we should get that ring. I know that supposedly no one else knows it's there, but it just makes me nervous. But then . . . I got out the front doors, and I got . . . scared," she finished in a tiny voice. "It was so dark, and the lawn is still a mess. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Harry assured her. "I wouldn't wander around in the dark right now for anything. We'll get it, I promise. You're right, it isn't a good idea to just leave it there."

"I'm hoping we'll have some time before it gets dark," Hermione answered.

"Right now, I think we're all hoping for food," Andromeda said, and Harry nodded his agreement. It had been five hours since he'd had breakfast, and his stomach was growling ferociously.

"About bloody time," Ron grumbled. The five of them, with Hermione still holding Teddy, headed downstairs to eat. In the newly cleaned Great Hall, the house-elves, headed by Kreacher, had set up a gigantic lunch for everyone. Harry helped himself to several sandwiches and a bowl of tomato soup, while Ron piled a little of everything onto his plate. Hermione munched a sandwich in one hand while she gave Teddy his bottle, and Andromeda drifted away to join Slughorn and Flitwick at another table. They both greeted their former student enthusiastically, and soon the three were deep in conversation.

Of all the privations the three of them had suffered while on the run for almost the whole past year, Harry never would have believed he'd miss pumpkin juice this much. He also couldn't help wondering how, considering that everything had been so chaotic for so long, someone had managed to keep enough pumpkins growing to provide a constant supply of juice. He'd found, however, that wondering about such aberrations in the Wizarding world just gave him a headache.

Harry suddenly shivered as he felt a cold breeze touch his back, and looked up to see Snape settling next to him on the bench the way Nearly Headless Nick used to do. Nick had obviously been a masochist in life, as he seemed to like nothing better than to sit and watch students scarfing down delicious food that he was unable to eat. Or maybe he just liked making them feel guilty as they observed his mournful expression. Harry glared at Snape, still raw from the argument the night before. "Why aren't you haunting the Slytherin table with the Bloody Baron?" he asked.

"You've seen my memories, Potter. Are you going to tell me I didn't die a Gryffindor?" Snape answered.

"You're sick." Harry piled some carrot-raisin salad on his plate. "You want some?" he asked snidely. The look Snape gave him was more exasperation than anger.

"Oh, that's right, you can't," Harry smirked.

"No, but you can be sure I'll irritate you as much as possible while _you're_ eating," Snape threatened.

"Unless you can take off your clothes while a ghost, I think my appetite will survive," Harry retorted. Snape opened his mouth, but Hermione spoke first.

"Harry," she said, keeping her voice low, "I understand why you brought Dennis back and everything, but what can he do that doesn't require a whole lot of complicated magic? He's only in fifth year, after all."

Dennis was eating with Oliver and Neville at the other end of the table, and from the way he was animatedly waving his arms around, Harry guessed their conversation couldn't possibly be overheard. "I guess he can help with the lawn," he said. "Or at the very least, he can watch Teddy. I just didn't want him and his mother all alone, grieving over Colin, you know?"

"Oh, I understand," Hermione assured him. "He just seems like the type that might try to take on too much and get hurt."

"Dennis was always good at Potions," Snape offered unexpectedly. "Perhaps Horace could use him as an assistant. I've been down there helping him with the concoctions for St. Mungo's, but I can only talk, not touch." He got up from the bench and started for Dennis. "I'll ask him now."

"That's done, then," Harry said in relief. Just at that moment, Andromeda wandered over.

"I'll be helping Filius with the cleanup upstairs," she informed them. "My family was always putting up various and sundry protection charms, so I'll be able to help with the restoration. But I'm afraid to have Teddy around all that rubble. Can you take care of him, or at least let me know when you'll be starting something big?" Harry assured her they would.

"Everyone's finding a job, then," Hermione said when Andromeda had left. All three of them were pretty much done eating, and Teddy was looking sleepy in her arms. "I think we'd better find an empty classroom and figure out what to do next."

The three of them left their plates behind and settled for a room on the second floor that hadn't been damaged in the fighting. Teddy was conked out on Hermione's shoulder, so she pulled out her wand and conjured a small cradle, which she gently rocked with one foot after tucking him into it. "He's so sweet, Harry," she said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping baby. "It's such an honour to be godfather . . . between you and Andromeda, I bet he never feels like he's missing anything."

Harry smiled. "He is sweet," he agreed. "I hope I can always be there for him." He thought of Sirius and felt that horrible pang of longing that never seemed to lessen, no matter how much time had passed. He hoped he could make Teddy so happy that he'd never have to feel that way.

Ron spoke up. "I'm not trying to be flippant here, but it just occurred to me. What do you think Mrs. . . . uh, Andromeda will put on T — well, Dora's stone? She hated her first name, and Tonks was her maiden name."

"I reckon 'Nymphadora Lupin,' although the poor girl had every right to hate that name," Hermione said, shuddering. "I don't even like mine very much, not least because the only nickname anyone's ever come up with is 'Hermy.' But it isn't 'Nymphadora,' that much I'm thankful for."

"I think your name is nice, Hermione," Ron answered. Hermione looked away, blushing to the roots of her hair. "But we should try to convince Andromeda to cut her daughter a break, twenty-six years late though it may be."

"Whatever happens," Hermione said, still looking faintly pink at Ron's compliment, "do _not_ let it be one of those that reads: 'Here Lies Remus John Lupin, Beloved Husband, Father of Theodore, Member of the Order of the Phoenix and Recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Died May 2, 1998 While Valiantly Defending Hogwarts Against Voldemort,' then below it, 'and Nymphadora, _his wife.'_" Her eyes were flashing. "I _hate_ that. They did that to my grandmother, as if she was Granddad's appendix or something."

Harry couldn't repress a snigger at the look on her face. "Tonks had a pretty bad temper. I think if she knew we'd put that on her grave, she'd come back and make us miserable. I've already had my fill of _that,_ thank you."

"I'll bet Andromeda just doesn't want to think about it right now," Ron suggested. "Mum's so upset over Fred that Ginny and Dad're pretty much making all the arrangements."

"I don't know," Harry said slowly. "Andromeda's a tough lady."

"Yeah, but just because she can doesn't mean she should have to," Hermione pointed out. "We could arrange the funerals for her so she can just focus on Teddy."

Harry had to admit she was right. He smiled when he thought of his tiny godson. He'd never thought much about babies, and wasn't about to turn all sentimental over them, but he thought that even under _Crucio,_ that giggling little bundle would be enough to cheer him up. "There are going to be so many funerals," he speculated, frown lines creasing his forehead, "and I just don't see —"

He was cut off when Hermione suddenly let out a shriek, and Harry's head whipped around to see what she was staring at. He jumped up from the floor when he saw Snape floating inches from him.

"Do you _mind?_ We locked the door so we could talk in private! Where the hell did you come from?" Harry asked, fumbling for something to say in his embarrassment.

"Sweet Merlin on a Comet Two Sixty, Potter," Snape said in exasperation. "Ghosts can float through walls, you know. Maybe you're confusing me with an Inferi, but look!" He twirled around, his translucent robes billowing out. "You can see right through me!"

"Shut up," Harry muttered, even as Ron snorted.

"Your sister," Snape addressed Ron in his familiar dry voice, "wanted me to inform you that there are funeral arrangements set for your brother this evening."

"Ginny's here?" Harry said eagerly.

Snape gave him a knowing look. "Miss Weasley has already left," he rejoined, and Harry's face fell. "Naturally, I assumed you wouldn't want her disturbing your secret meeting."

"We're trying to figure out what to do about people's funerals," Harry said, too disappointed over missing Ginny to want to argue much. "I really think we should go to everyone's that fought for us, because we're kind of the Ministry representatives now, but there will just be too many. Besides, McGonagall said there've only been three bodies claimed so far. Probably the others' families are dead or in prison or something." He sighed. "I hate to say this, but we have so much to do, and this is really getting in the way. I don't want to feel like that, but —"

"That's only natural," Snape interrupted. Harry looked at him in surprise; since when did Snape take his side? "In 1981, up until you defeated Voldemort the first time, a lot of people were dying: Order members, Muggles, Ministry workers . . . sometimes whole families at once. I assure you that with all there was to do trying to get _him,_ we all questioned the time it took to arrange things for the dead. It didn't mean we respected their sacrifices any less." Snape looked pensive. "Why don't you plan on a memorial service for everyone?" he suggested. "That way, not only does it all get done at once, but the ones whose families aren't available don't get slighted."

Hermione's face relaxed, and Harry gave a sigh of relief. "That's brilliant," he acceded.

"Of course it's brilliant," Snape agreed, and Ron rolled his eyes.

"Where should it happen?" he asked.

Harry frowned. "Do Wizarding families have separate . . . erm, cemeteries?" he asked. He'd never thought about it, but then again, he couldn't see wizards wanting to be thrown in with Muggles, either.

"Not exactly, although they prefer to use the ones in Wizarding communities, like Godric's Hollow or Hogsmeade," Ron answered. Harry nodded; after all, his parents were buried in Godric's Hollow, which appeared to be mainly home to wizards, but with a large enough Muggle population.

"Well, I know it's supposed to be the 'final resting place' and all, but really, with magic, it's easy enough to move someone later," Hermione offered.

"Or cremate them later," Snape muttered.

Harry shot him a furious glare. "Believe me, there's nothing I'd like better than to watch you burn," he snapped. He spoke to Hermione. "Can you believe the greasy git woke me up last night to tell me he wanted to be _cremated?_ After all we did getting him in the ground?"

"Well, _we_ didn't do so much, mate," Ron told him delicately. "I mean, it was really Hermione who did all the work while we were la — erm, talking."

"It's the principle of the thing," Harry muttered. "First we're supposed to drop everything to get his portrait painted, now he wants us to dig him up and cremate him. Whatever he did for our side is quickly being cancelled out."

_"Anyway,"_ Hermione said pointedly, "we'll need to get all the letters from McGonagall's office to figure out who's still here. When she gets back with the family information, then we'll go from there."

"I'll get them," Harry offered.

"And I'll . . . oh, we can't leave Teddy alone," Hermione said. "Ronald, can you ask Dumbledore where he thinks all our people should be buried?"

"Uh-huh," Ron answered. "Why didn't it occur to you to ask me to watch Teddy?"

"Well, you're not especially careful," Hermione retorted.

"I have a younger sister, in case you've forgotten," Ron snapped back. "Of course, I dropped her a few times . . ."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just come help me, mate," he ordered Ron. "Teddy's going to have enough problems without being dropped into the bargain."

The two of them exited the classroom; Ron was still muttering under his breath, but Harry was hardly listening. He was thinking about Fred's funeral that night. It was the first time he'd be seeing Ginny, really seeing her, for months and months. And he couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that the whole family would blame him for Fred's death. He'd done the best he could, and granted, Voldemort was dead . . . but to the grieving Mrs. Weasley, would the end justify the means? Well, he had to go to the funeral; he couldn't disregard Fred, who'd given his 'last full measure of devotion,' just because he felt uncomfortable around Fred's family just now. And he did want to offer Ginny his support. She might be tough as nails, but losing a brother had to hurt.

"Oi, Harry," Ron said, breaking into Harry's train of thought as he jogged to catch up, "I've figured what to put down for Tonks's name."

"What?" Harry asked absently, trying to plan out the memorial service in his head.

"Dances With Wolf."


	5. Brother, Can You Spare the Wine?

**Chapter Five: Brother, Can You Spare the Wine?**

When Harry had attended Bill and Fleur's wedding last year, he had wondered if the Wizarding version of the ceremony differed at all from the Muggle one. Never having been to either, he couldn't be sure.

Harry _had_ been to a Muggle funeral, though. When he was nine, Uncle Vernon's mother had passed away, and the whole family traveled to York for the funeral. It had been rather different from Dumbledore's, to be sure, but Harry expected that anything done for Dumbledore wouldn't be normal, anyway.

This evening, the gathering at the Weasley home wasn't atypical. Same darkly-clad mourners, same table creaking with casserole dishes – what was it about casseroles when people died? – the same photo of the deceased ringed with fresh flowers. Of course, Fred's picture was moving, unlike Gertrude Dursley's, and Fred wasn't alone; he and George were both in the frame. Harry could barely tell the twins apart in person – or at least he hadn't been able to up until George's accident last summer – but it appeared that Fred was trying to pull George's hair out in this one.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had tumbled out of the kitchen fireplace, having left by Floo from McGonagall's office just moments before. Harry, who had gone first, had a few seconds to survey the scene before first Hermione, then Ron exited the green glow of the Floo. Hermione, who had never liked to travel this way, had swallowed some powder and needed several thumps on the back to break up her hacking cough.

"Look, I'm running upstairs to change," Ron whispered once Hermione was settled, leaning in toward Harry so as to be heard. No one else was in the kitchen with them, but there were several people standing in the hallway not too far away, and a louder tone would have been overheard. Harry doubted anyone cared about Ron's clothing, but considering this was a funeral, he agreed it was more polite to speak quietly. "I'll be right back."

"What do we do in the meantime?" Hermione asked him, nervously pressing her palms against her robe. "I've only ever been to one funeral, and that was at a church. This looks more like a wake."

"Fred's body is already at the cemetery. This is where anyone who wants to pay their respects comes and talks to the family, or writes in the Book of Life." Ron pointed at a book lying open on the table in front of Fred's picture. "Only a few people – family and really, really close friends – attend the graveside where we say goodbye before the burial, which is always right at sunset. That part is supposed to be more private."

"Isn't there a minister?" Harry asked.

"Weddings and funerals aren't considered religious ceremonies for wizards." Hermione spoke before Ron could answer. Having the answer – even one of them – seemed to give her new confidence, and she didn't look quite so lost.

Ron nodded. "At the graveside, anyone who wants to share a memory or just say goodbye can do so. A Ministry employee has to be present, by law . . . I can't think why, they just do. But Dad is, so that's taken care of."

"They need to certify that the body was actually buried, not taken away to use in some Dark ritual," came Hermione's voice again. "Apparently, they had some trouble with that in the past."

Harry thought that was odd reasoning. "Wouldn't it be easy for a wizard to come dig him out later?" he asked. Hermione had only needed to give a quick flick of her wand to empty a grave for Snape, so it stood to reason that exhuming him would have been just as uncomplicated.

Ron shrugged. "We do what we can, mate. Anyway, like I said, let me go change, then I'll take you around." He ran up the stairs two at a time, leaving his friends standing rather awkwardly in their corner, spying on the guests in the other rooms and attempting to take cue from their behaviour.

Not everyone was wearing black, actually. The proper attire appeared to be dress robes, which was undoubtedly what Ron would fetch from his room. Harry, having left all but the most basic of his possessions at the Dursleys' last summer, and Hermione, whose parents had packed up their house and moved to Australia, had wardrobes comprised entirely of tees and trousers. They'd spent half an hour going through the contents of Hermione's beaded purse before concluding that. Luckily, the students who'd fled during the battle hadn't been back for their things yet, so they'd both been able to scrounge Hogwarts robes to wear. While not especially dressy, they were at least neat and sober.

Privately, Harry wondered why Hermione couldn't just Transfigure something else into robes, but felt that it was up to her to broach the subject. He also wondered why, when she'd clearly explained the Principal Exceptions to Gaunt's . . . to Grump's . . . well, the Rules of Food, anyway . . . she still hadn't been able to multiply their food supply while they were camping all over the British countryside. But that thought, in turn, led to speculation as to how some perfectly adept wizards – namely the Weasleys and Lupin – had always dressed themselves and their children so shabbily. Couldn't magic be used to repair clothing? And at that point, Harry started to feel overwhelmed and decided it was time to think about something else entirely.

Still, considering the circumstances, it was hardly appropriate to be raising a fuss over robes. So here they stood, dressed in too-short wool school robes – at least they had the Gryffindor crest – trying to blend in with the wallpaper while Weasleys of all ages milled around them. Similarities aside, Harry really had no idea what one did at a funeral. Of any kind. It was small consolation that Hermione, usually so self-possessed, looked as bewildered as he did.

Harry jumped as Ron's voice spoke too close to his ear; he hadn't even heard his friend return. "Let's go see my parents," Ron was saying softly. He started for the sitting room, and Harry took Hermione's arm to guide her through the crowd.

Mrs. Weasley was sitting in one of the dining chairs, her husband standing over her with his hands on her shoulders. A rather elderly witch had both of Ron's mother's hands clasped in her own, and was speaking to her softly. Harry felt a pang when he saw how Mrs. Weasley's face was streaked with tears. Once rather plump, she had shed a great deal of weight over the past year, which even her long, dark robes couldn't disguise completely. Her face was much thinner, with huge dark circles under the eyes and sharply-outlined cheekbones. Both she and Mr. Weasley had a quantity of silver in their hair, and Arthur also looked as if he'd lost weight. Ron's father wasn't crying, but his face had the unnatural stillness of someone who didn't want to show any emotion whatsoever.

Ron headed straight for his mother, who stood up and folded him into a tight hug. The elderly witch gave him a sad smile before her eyes flickered to Harry, and lit up as realisation dawned. Actually, several people had looked at him strangely as the three made their way across the room; the whispering had started, too. Harry's face grew hot with mortification; this was Fred's funeral, and he was the centre of attention, which just wasn't right.

Harry and Hermione hung back while Ron embraced his mother, but after a second, Mrs. Weasley let go of Ron and beckoned for them. "Harry, dear. And Hermione. Thank you both so much for coming." she said, taking Harry's hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Of course we came." Harry nodded at Mr. Weasley, who gave him a tight smile.

"Can I help you do anything, Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked her quietly. Harry hoped the answer would be yes; he'd relish something to do, preferably something that would take him away from the stares and whispers.

"We'll be leaving very soon for the . . . burial," Arthur said softly. "So it's about time for all of us to gather in the kitchen. Fleur has volunteered to stay and see everyone else out."

"We could help. Or if you like, I can make sure dinner's ready when you get back," Hermione offered.

"What do you mean? You'll be coming with us, of course," Mrs. Weasley replied, surprised.

Hermione coloured. "Ron said that part was just for family, so I assumed . . ."

"You and Harry _are_ family."

Harry saw Hermione flush, and he knew he probably was, too. But he also felt very grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at that moment.

"Harry." Harry jerked out of his reverie when Mr. Weasley spoke his name. "Ginny's outside, and I think George is, too. Can you bring them in?"

"Sure, Mr. Weasley." Harry made for the door.

"Arthur, Harry." Harry smiled at him before stepping outside, where the sun was steadily sinking toward the horizon. Ginny was standing at the edge of the back garden, facing west, but she turned and watched him as he approached.

"Hey," Harry said awkwardly. "Erm, your dad says it's time to leave. Where's George?"

"He's over there." Ginny cocked her head. "Dad's been really worried about him," she added softly, glancing over to the corner of the yard where her brother sat cross-legged on an overturned crate, staring at the setting sun. There was a glass of what appeared to be orange juice resting on the ground next to him. "He's been hitting the firewhisky pretty hard. We all had some to drink that first night, of course, but George hasn't stopped since. He gets up in the morning, pours a shot in his coffee, and doesn't leave off until he goes to bed." As if to illustrate her point, Harry saw George lift his glass and down the contents.

"Well, he just lost his twin," Harry offered. "I know when I lost Sirius, I thought how nice it would be to get good and pissed." Against his will, Harry found his mind wandering back to those days that followed the Department of Mysteries. Just at first, there'd been so much activity, what with packing up and bidding his friends and classmates goodbye, that Harry had little time to spend in idle melancholy. It was only after he'd gone home – or, more accurately, to where he lived – that the stillness and emptiness almost became too much. Harry had spent his nights rather as he suspected Sirius had for the past year: lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, only getting up on occasion to use the loo or stare blankly at the contents of the refrigerator, finally closing it without having taken anything out.

Had he been an adult with a stocked liquor cupboard, Harry may very well have chosen that method of escape. Only lack of supply and Dumbledore's timely appearance had prevented that eventuality. So he wasn't at all surprised to learn about George's new habit. "But then, I hadn't known Sirius very long, and Fred and George were never apart their whole lives. So I reckon he'll be doing this for a while."

"There've already been two suicides, family members of people that died," Ginny replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Harry looked at her in shock. "Dad thinks George might try to . . . follow Fred. You haven't seen him when he's pissed. He's this whole other person." She bit her lip as George got up, reeling a bit before setting off toward the house with his empty cup. "So you can see why we're worried."

Harry stared in horror as Ginny's eyes welled up with tears. He'd never seen her upset before and wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. For so long now, he'd tried to block out the memories of their brief, happy time together at Hogwarts last year. For one thing, it hurt too much to brood over what he'd lost. For another, on the off chance that Voldemort was still inside his head, Harry didn't even want the Dark Lord to _suspect_ his connection to Ginny. And go after her.

Now, with his former girlfriend showing the first crack in her armour that Harry had ever seen, and free to show how he really felt, he only wanted to hold her. So he did just that. He took one step and suddenly Ginny's face was buried into his neck, into the little hollow in his throat that seemed to have been made just for her. Her shoulders were heaving as she fought not to start blubbing, and he just gently stroked her back while murmuring nonsense syllables. For the first time, Harry began to realise that Ginny wasn't just a friend, nor just a girlfriend. Their relationship at Hogwarts, which seemed intense at the time, now appeared shallow and superficial. So much had happened since, and so many friends were gone forever. Never having expected to survive the war, plans beyond the next few days were still abstract and ephemeral in Harry's concept of the future. But that evening, with the dying sunlight playing over Ginny's gorgeous hair, something in his subconscious made the irrevocable decision that this girl would be his wife one day.

They may have stood like that for hours had Ron not called them in from the kitchen. Harry reluctantly let go of Ginny and settled for putting his arm around her as they walked back to the house. Everyone who was going to the graveside was in the kitchen, ready to leave, when the two of them finally got in. Ron's parents, Ron himself, Bill, Charlie, Percy, George (who didn't look as if he could stand up much longer without assistance), and Hermione. Harry couldn't help feeling a surge of happiness that he and Hermione were considered close enough to be included in this most private family ceremony.

"Right, then, we're all here," Mr. Weasley said. "Let's go. Harry, would you bring Ginny along?" Harry was confused at the request until first Bill, then Percy, and all the rest of them in succession began Disapparating with identical _pop_s. He had become so used to Apparating that he'd forgotten Ginny wasn't yet seventeen.

Though her eyes were still too bright from unshed tears, Ginny managed to smile at him. "Give me a hand, please? And watch where you put it," she chided.

Harry chuckled before offering his arm, which she took with both hands. He prepared himself to Apparate . . . then stopped. "Erm . . . where . . . ?" he asked, embarrassed.

"Rowe-Stuart Cemetery," Ginny explained. "It's actually within walking distance."

"Thanks." Harry closed his eyes and focused on their destination. That old Apparation feeling of being squeezed through a garden hose had never become commonplace to him, and when they appeared in the cemetery seconds later, Harry gratefully took deep breaths of the warm June air.

Everyone else had formed a circle around the only open grave. Harry and Ginny hurried to join them. Arthur nodded at the pair without pausing in what he was saying. ". . . in this last farewell to our brother and son. Now, anyone who'd like to share a memory of Fred or say something to him, do so."

Ron shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. "Well, what I remember most about Fred is how he . . . well, how both of you" – he nodded at George – "were always trying to run Mum ragged switching places with each other. She got pretty good at telling you apart, but if you switched jumpers or something, she was usually too flustered to notice." Mrs. Weasley had a sad smile on her face as Ron spoke. "Fred's favourite game was to get a snack from Mum, then go upstairs and come back again, pretending he was George. 'Mum, you gave Fred a snack, can I have one, too?'" Ron mimicked, and everyone laughed. "Of course, she'd give him one, then he'd come back _again_ and act like it had been George the whole time. Mum figured she'd fed George twice, so Fred ended up with a _third_ snack." Ron shook his head. "He ate more than the rest of us put together and never gained an ounce. Anyway, that's what I remember."

There was an awkward pause. Perhaps everyone had a memory to share, but no one wanted to appear pushy. Finally, Bill started to speak, swinging his arms freely by his sides. "Erm, well, Ron always came to me when you two had been taking the piss out of him, so I'm rather biased towards thinking of him as a troublemaker," he said. "Like when you turned his teddy bear into a spider, and . . . oh, yeah, that time you almost killed him with the Unbreakable Vow." This last was delivered in a light and deliberately nonchalant tone, so it also elicited laughter from the group.

Percy, who despite his flaming red hair still looked oddly out of place among the family he'd ignored so long, went next. "You two were always so close," he began, looking at George while addressing the whole group. "Charlie and Bill were, too. I felt kind of left out, which is why . . ." Percy looked down at his shoes and scuffed a toe along the grass. "That's why I started to keep to myself. But what I always liked about Fred was that he was never mean. He played all kinds of pranks, even on me, but he wasn't ever malicious. It was all good fun." He stopped and looked about him rather awkwardly. "Well, that's . . . that's it, I reckon."

Arthur nodded. "Thank you, son." He turned to his wife. "Molly? Are you ready to say goodbye?" He placed a comforting hand on the small of her back. "Go ahead, love," he added in a softer voice.

"Oh, go 'head and tellum," George suddenly spoke up in the too-loud tones of someone who's been drinking heavily and can't regulate the volume of his voice. "Tellum how you awways blamed him'n'me for everything. Tellum how uhsh . . . uh-shamed you were t'have such losers fer sons." George was smiling, but there was no laughter in that smile; it was more of a grimace. "Tellum."

"George," Arthur admonished his son. "Stop." Mrs. Weasley's face was working, more tears beginning to slip down her face.

George acted as if he hadn't heard his father. "Oh, it wuz awways Bill the Prefect, Ch-charlie the Head Boy . . . Perthy wuddna give tuppenth for any of 'un, but you couldna stan' it whenne left. Never cried when Fred'n'me moved out!"

"That isn't true, George!" Mrs. Weasley cried piteously. "I always loved you children the same, every one of you the same!" She turned to her husband. "Arthur, tell him," she pleaded. "Tell him I loved them both the same as the others! Tell him how proud I was of them!"

Whatever Arthur might have said was drowned out as George continued his tirade. His mother's supplications seemed only to fuel his ire. "Oh, shu-u-u-ure. You shure're proud when we got _rich,_ but how 'bout before? Awl them Howlurrs, and the th-thcreaming when we came home for how-howwid-daze . . ." George's voice trailed off as if he'd lost his train of thought. Everyone stood frozen, none of them knowing what they should do.

After a few seconds' pause, George opened his mouth, ready to continue. "Harry, why don't you speak next, please?" Arthur quickly interrupted.

Harry didn't even have a chance to start talking when George took another step forward, stumbling even over the flat earth. Harry could smell the whisky from clear on the other side of the open grave. Everyone tensed as George called across to Harry, as if the English Channel stood between them instead of perhaps four feet. "G'head, then, mate. We tho honoured to haf the Boy Who Wived wif uth today . . . whaddaya wanna thay about the Boy Who _Died?_" George burst into hysterical laughter that echoed horribly in the absolute silence.

Harry's face and ears burned; he couldn't even fathom what would be the right thing to say. "George," he began, but George cut him off.

"Wha'? Oh, thawry, mate, thath my bad ear. Funny th-thtory there; we wath helping out thith frienda ourn 'bout a year ago, 'n' thomehow ev-everyone but him ended up getting huwt."

"_George!"_ Ginny hissed.

"Why don't you go pour yourself another drink, _mate?_" Ron shouted at his brother, closing the space between them with four quick paces. "I reckon your old one is wearing off!"

"Stop it, _please!_" Hermione cried, stepping between the two men. "This isn't the right time."

"Ith my brin twother'th _funeral,_ you damned . . . you _Mumbwood,"_ George bellowed, tripping over the words even worse now that he was riled up. "Wha'th a better time? How m-many udder people're dead cautha _him?_" George tried to point at Harry and ended up aiming the gesture at Ginny, who stood to Harry's left, gripping his arm like a vise.

At the word 'Mudblood', Hermione flinched back from George; her shoulders sagged, and Harry saw her eyes fill with tears at hearing the epithet from the last person she expected to use such a slur. Ron, however, far from shrinking away, lashed a fist out at his brother's face; there was a sickening sound as his punch landed slightly off the center of George's nose.

"That's enough, son." Arthur's voice, while quiet, echoed loudly in the sudden deathly stillness. Ron, whose face was red as a beet except for two white spots right at the crest of his cheeks, and whose eyes were burning like live coals, allowed Arthur to gently push him back from George. George's nose was already bleeding, but he didn't even appear cognizant of that. In fact, other than a slight swaying of his tall frame, George didn't seem to have been affected at all. He started to laugh, an eerie sound with no mirth in it whatsoever.

"Fred'th dead, po-o-or dead Fred," he slurred in a singsong voice, stumbling, but not struggling, as Arthur steered him away from the shellshocked people at the gravesite. Arthur looked over his shoulder at Ron as he walked.

"Help your mother, son," he said simply, before pulling George's staggering form close and Disapparating with a _pop._

Harry tore his eyes away from the spot where Arthur had just been standing and looked at Mrs. Weasley. Arthur was right; she needed help. Her face was white as snow, and she looked ready to keel over. Ron, snapped out of his fury by his father's words, turned and caught her just before she fell. As Bill and Charlie rushed over to help, Mrs. Weasley sagged limply against Ron.

"Let's get her home," Bill said to his brothers. "You two go first and stand ready; I'll Apparate Mum." He looked over at Harry, who was still holding Ginny's hand tightly. "Don't take any notice of what George said just now, Harry. You see how it is; he goes after everyone when he's pissed." Bill shifted his weight to support his mother better. "He doesn't even remember it when he's sober."

Harry nodded, ashamed and yet grateful that Bill stopped in the middle of a crisis to try and make him feel better. Ron also spoke to him and said, "I'll see you back home, mate," before he and Charlie Apparated away.

Which left Harry behind with Ginny, Percy, and Hermione, who was facing away from them, her arms hugged tight around her middle as if she were cold, though the air was still warm. Ginny's face was a mask, but her eyes were brimming, and she looked ready to crack. Percy just looked terrified as he looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione, whom he barely knew, and his sister, whom he didn't know that much better. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Ah, I reckon I'll just . . . go see if Dad needs my help." He Disapparated without giving any of them a chance to reply.

Harry's shoulders slumped; he felt as tired and drained as ever he had while on the lam from the Death Eater-controlled Ministry. He reached out and absently pulled Ginny back against his chest, feeling her heaving with unuttered sobs even as he waited for Hermione to recover herself and turn around. And all the while, the setting sun's backlight glowed crimson, as if the blood of the fallen had evaporated in the bright glow of day and stained the sky with the price of their sacrifice.

**To be continued . . .**


End file.
